Explosions
by TheChimeraSculptress
Summary: Plagued by a recurring nightmare Sherlock realises he needs to talk to Molly about the 'I love you' phone call that Euros forced him to make. Set a couple of days after season 4 episode 3 ends.
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE -

This story takes place about a day or two after season 4 episode 3 ended.

Explosions

The explosion ricocheted through Sherlock's subconscious waking him with a start. Unfamiliar shadows further disorientated him until his brain promptly caught up and reminded him that he was sleeping in John's spare room. That he was temporarily living at his house until 221B was restored to its former glory.

Groping for the bedside clock he groaned at the time.

2am.

Exactly the same time as last night.

And the night before.

Slumping forward, he dragged his hands through his hair in frustration. At the same time there was a knock at the door and John peered into the room.

"You OK?"

Sherlock lifted his head. " _Fine_ ," he returned a little too defensively. "Nothing a _nice cup of tea_ won't cure."

John looked unconvinced. "That's the third night in a row you've called out in your sleep."

Sherlock's brow twitched interrogatively. "I did? What did I say?"

"No."

"I said no?"

"Yes." John eyed him in concern. "And rather frantically. It's a miracle you _didn't_ wake Rosie."

 _I was frantic_ , Sherlock realised, his heart quickening at the memory, but he kept the thought to himself.

"Want to talk about it?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "It was just a dream...a bad dream."

"But you don't have bad dreams, remember? You boast about it often enough. Gruesome murders galore and not a single nightmare. What is it? Your sister?"

"No."

"Moriarty?"

Sherlock baulked, the idea annoying him. " _No."_

"Who then?"

Sherlock sighed. "Molly."

John blinked his surprise. "Molly?"

Accepting that he wasn't going to get back to sleep any time soon, Sherlock dragged himself from the bed and into his dressing gown. "Tea!" he repeated with gusto as he tightened his belt and strode passed John.

"Shush," John hissed as he hurried after him down the stairs. "Or you _will_ wake Rosie."

"No. We have an understanding," Sherlock whispered back, a smile tugging at his lips. "She refrains from any night time shenanigans and I reward her with copious educated play."

"Educated play? Is _that_ what you call it?" John frowned as he caught up with him.

"I am merely interested in her observational skills."

"She's a baby, Sherlock. Not your lab rat."

"Oh, John. That is harsh."

Sherlock swept into the kitchen and headed straight for the fridge.

"She is a sponge, John," he threw over his shoulder as he reached for a carton of milk. "Every second counts during the first few years."

John folded his arms and regarded him wearily. "Since when did you become a child psychologist?"

Ignoring him Sherlock switched on the kettle and rummaged around for tea bags and sugar. "Imagine it, John. Mary's DNA and my influence."

"What about _my_ DNA?"

"I could mould her into the second best consulting detective ever to have lived."

John rolled his eyes. "What if I don't want my daughter to be a consulting detective?"

Sherlock stared back at him blankly. "Why ever not?"

"Because I don't want an arrogant arsehole for a daughter, that's why."

Sherlock feigned disappointment. "But I have matured, John. Isn't that what everyone is saying? I have become _humanised_?" He made a face as he rolled the word upon his tongue. It still left a bad taste.

"You can be human and still an arrogant arsehole," John smirked.

There was a pine table in the centre of the kitchen and he pulled out a chair and sat down. "Now enough about Rosie. We came down here to talk about Molly."

Except for the ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge, there was silence whilst Sherlock busied himself making the tea. When he finally handed John his steaming mug John regarded him expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted.

Sherlock didn't sit down. Instead he leaned back against the work top, sipping at his tea thoughtfully.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed again. "In the dream she refuses to comply."

"Comply?"

"To say... _I love you_."

"Oh."

"And Eurus..." Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably, "...blows up her flat." He faltered before adding: "and Molly with it."

"And that's why you called out _no_?"

"Obviously," Sherlock returned sarcastically.

John lowered his mug. "Like you said, it's just a dream." He shrugged. "The brain dwelling on the worse case scenario."

"My brain doesn't dwell, John. It conquers and moves on."

"The old Sherlock, maybe."

Digesting the thought, Sherlock continued to sip at his tea.

"Look, Molly knows what happened," John tried to reassure. "Mycroft told her everything while they were removing Eurus's cameras from her flat. She knows you did what you had to do to save her life."

When Sherlock continued to zone him out, he yawned, his eyes growing heavy, threatening to close.

"I need to talk to her." Suddenly resolved, Sherlock slammed his mug back down onto the worktop.

John blinked the world back into focus, nodding compliantly. "It'll probably help. She's looking after Rosie on Friday."

"Now!"

"Now?"

"I need to talk to her now."

John's eyes flicked up to the wall clock. "It's 2:20 in the morning!"

"It must be now, John."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. That's a bit unsociable."

It was Sherlock's turn to smirk. "I'm a high functioning sociopath. It's what I do best."

John rolled his eyes again but didn't have the energy to talk Sherlock out of it. He desperately needed sleep.

Admitting defeat he stood up. "No, you're a bloody drama queen. That's what you _do best_." He hesitated, regarding Sherlock more seriously. "But Sherlock...please...whatever it is you need to get off your chest. Just...be nice."

Taking a deep breath Sherlock nodded soberly. "Don't worry, John. I intend to be."

John watched him curiously as he hurried from the kitchen. "What are you going to say to her?"

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway, finally glancing back at him. "I have absolutely no idea." But his mouth twitched into a smile. "Though I assure you I will keep the arrogant arsehole well restrained."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As silently as a ghost, Molly closed her bedroom door, padded across the hall and into the kitchen. She didn't bother to switch the light on as she headed for the sink, the street lamp flooding ample light into the room. Filling a glass with water she brought it over to the table and sat down.

Cradling it in her hands she took a sip, her eyes flicking around the half light uneasily. Although Mycroft had assured her that all of the cameras had been removed from her flat she still felt on edge, as if she were being watched.

She caught sight of the oven clock in the half light. The illuminated digits told her it was 2:30. She took a deep breath, dragging a trembling hand through her hair.

It was the third night in a row she had been woken in the early hours. And always the same dream.

 _Nightmare_ , she corrected herself with a shudder.

The explosion ricocheted through her mind, its debris blasting right down to pierce her heart. But it was always the aftermath that woke her with a gasp.

Nothing left. Of 221B or its inhabitants.

All of them. Dead. Blown to bits. John, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson...Sherlock. Even baby Rosie.

Taking a gulp of water she reminded herself that it was only a dream. That they _weren't_ dead. That 221B would soon be returned to its former glory and life at Baker Street would resume to normal.

But for her?

She scrunched her eyes closed as she remembered that phone-call. Mycroft had explained everything in his usual impassive way. Told her that it had all been part of some perverse game contrived by their psychotic sister. That she had forced Sherlock to make the call. That Sherlock had needed her to comply in order to save her life.

 _I love you._

Her shoulders heaved at the memory.

 _I love you._

God, how could something be so wonderful yet, at the same time, so terrible? Bitter-sweet, that was the word. But didn't that just sum up her life in general. For so many years she had longed for Sherlock to say those three little word but when he finally did, they had been feigned and empty, simply a desperate means to an end.

She had hated him so much before she discovered the true reason behind his cruelty. She wanted never to see him again. In fact, she wanted to move right away from London and make a fresh start. But once she had been enlightened her anger had turned. Directed itself inwards. For hadn't she been just as culpable? Forcing sentiment from the one man who not only abhorred the very concept but deep down (and in all likelihood unbeknown to him) probably feared it. She had made him vulnerable and if there was one thing Sherlock hated was being weak. In hindsight, she realised her blow had been much crueller than his. The simple fact was, she should have known that after all they had been through over the years, that Sherlock was above making fun of her. That while he could still be a pain in the arse at times, he would never intentionally hurt her like that. Damn it, she should have twigged that something was wrong.

She blinked back tears.

It hadn't helped that she had been having the worst of days, discovering one of her neighbours on the mortuary slab that very morning. The dear old man had been like a substitute father to her. His death had opened old wounds, reawakened old grief. Made her acknowledge just how much she missed her real dad. It had also numbed her senses, making her lash out at Sherlock without thinking.

What if he couldn't forgive her? She could accept him never loving her. She had pretty much resigned herself to the fact years ago. But to lose his friendship. That, she couldn't bare.

She let out a sob and quickly pressed clenched fingers against her lips to try to stifle her emotions. God, it was all so messed up. So twisted. She feared things would never - _could never_ \- be the same between them.

When the light was suddenly switched on she turned with a start.

"You OK?"

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, face filled with concern. It seemed odd seeing him in the same oversized dressing gown that Sherlock wore on the occasions he used her flat for temporary refuge from the world.

She sniffed. "Just a dream. A bad dream."

"The cameras still bothering you?"

She shook her head. If only it were that simple.

"You cried out in your sleep."

This was news to her. "I did? What did I say?"

"No."

"No?"

He nodded. "Want to talk about it?"

She shook her head again.

"I'm sorry about this, Greg."

"Don't be. You've had a nasty scare. It's natural that you'll feel a bit unsettled."

"I really appreciate you spending the night. I hope the spare bed isn't too uncomfortable."

Sherlock had complained enough times.

"I've endured worse on stakeouts," Greg reassured her, a twinkle in his sleepy eyes.

She smiled through her tears. Greg was such a sweetie. He had been with Mycroft when they had searched her flat for Eurus's cameras. When he had seen what a state she was in he had promised to check up on her that evening. True to his word, he had returned at a little after seven. They had ordered a pizza, drank far too much wine, and talked about...well, Sherlock mostly. Despite the present circumstances, stories of the old Sherlock had been bearable with a bit of alcohol numbing the pain. They had talked about John too. And dear Mary. And all that had happened over the past few years. They had always been good friends but had really bonded. There had been a little peck on the cheek when the wine had really kicked in. And there could be no mistaking that hopeful look in his eyes. Ever since that Christmas party at 221B, around the time of Irene Adler, she had sensed that he might have a slight crush on her. Mary had even backed this up on a girl's night out, telling her that the man was secretly smitten. But he had behaved himself and stumbled to the spare room when she had insisted he was in no fit state to drive home.

It was funny really. She had always been so obsessed with Sherlock that she had never thought about Greg in that way. He was a little bit older than her but not shockingly so. Part of her almost regretted not sleeping with him. It might have been a pleasant distraction. Comforting, even. She had always liked him...

She sighed inwardly.

But he was not Sherlock.

He must have registered the look on her face because he frowned. "Look, are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" The twinkle returned to his eyes. "I'm a good listener."

"At 2:30 in the morning?"

"You've got coffee?"

She nodded.

"Then switch the kettle on."

Admitting defeat, she stood up. Sharing the dream wouldn't hurt. It would probably be good to get it off her chest. But the phone-call...She wasn't sure whether Mycroft had told him about it.

But at that moment his mobile rang. Flashing her an apologetic smile he dragged it out from the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown.

She chewed at her lip as she watched him answer it.

"Donovan? What time do you call this?...Yeah, I know...you don't have to keep reminding me...OK, OK, keep your hair on...So, what's going down?" He frowned. "They what!?...When?...Shit! Bloody timing." He sighed. "Yeah, I'll come over...yeah, now...I'll be there in ten...no...make it fifteen."

Ending the call he met her stare. "Sorry. Something big has come up. I've got to go."

"Of course. No problem." She nodded in understanding. "Duty calls."

"Are you sure you'll be OK?"

"Of course. Please don't worry. The cameras are gone. The psychotic sister is safely secured again."

His face softened. "I'm talking about what happened with Sherlock."

"Oh."

So he did know about the phone-call.

She shrugged, suddenly flustered. "Of course. No big deal."

He watched her, unconvinced, eyes sympathetic.

Molly turned away, taking her glass across to the sink. "Mycroft told me. You know...told me what it was all about."

She squared her shoulders and turned back to him, forcing a smile. "You better go. Or Donovan will have your blood."

Greg rolled his eyes. "She had it years ago."

A few minutes later he was dressed and lingering at the front door. On impulse he reached across and gave her an awkward hug. "I'll give you a call when I've finished with Donovan."

She nodded as they parted. "OK."

There was a moment's panic when he thought he had lost his car keys but after some fumbling he finally located them. He wagged them in relief.

"Thanks again for a lovely evening," Molly whispered and she genuinely meant it.

He eyed her warmly. "Any time."

As he hurried away he stumbled slightly on a step and Molly's lips twitched.

"Bloody hope Donovan doesn't breathalyse me," he joked, and with a final wave, he disappeared in search of his car.

Hoping he would be all right, Molly started to close the front door but found herself hesitating. Staring into the night a shiver ran down her spine. She still felt as if she was being watched, which was crazy when she wasn't even in the house now. She glanced around warily. Had there been some external cameras that Mycroft had overlooked, or was it purely psychological on her part? She heard Greg's car splutter into life and drive away but she remained rooted to the spot, the cold night air sweeping around her, chilling her to the bone.

She started. Someone was out there, she was sure of it.

Coming to her senses she quickly retreated into the flat and slammed the door behind her.


End file.
